Cassian and the Coat of Many Pockets
by eschscholzia
Summary: As the Rebel Alliance works to establish a base on Hoth, the Master Chief has the warmest coat on the base, and Cassian will do anything to get it. The Master Chief won't trade for anything. What happens when the irresistible force meets the immovable object? (Alternate universe- please don't look too closely)


It was the Chief's, and he wanted it. Midnight blue, with a ruff of fur from some Expansion Region animal around the hood. The Master Chief was the only person who never complained of the cold on Hoth, and it had so many pockets, too. Cassian was so tired of wearing three shirts, two fleeces, and a leftover rain coat from their Yavin 4 tropical gear; and that was just what he had on indoors.

"Can't have it," grinned the Master Chief, here to oversee the digging of tunnels at Echo Base. "I've had it since I was a lowly Construction Mate working on Glid Station at Orto Plutonia. This is old Republic- issue, you know."

Cassian was in Rebel Intelligence, after all. He just had to find out what she liked, to butter her up so she'd be willing to barter. When questioned, Wedge said she was famous among the Dantooine crew for her Sic-Six-layer cake. On his next recon mission to some planet (they all blurred together, he couldn't remember which), Cassian took a side excursion through the planet's bazaar.

Smiling confidently, he laid a set of six nesting agrinium cake pans on the Master Chief's workbench, in a clear space among the tools.

"Still not trading," she ground out around the hydro-spanner held between her teeth as she worked on sharpening drill bits on a boring machine. Her voice was toughened from years of hard work and smoky cantinas. She didn't sound like she had budged at all in their negotiations, if they were even to that point that he could call it a negotiation. She grabbed a file from one of the loops on her sleeves and went back to honing the drill edge. He considered the talks tabled, but only temporarily.

The mess hall was astonished when a flawlessly-crafted multi-layer cake appeared on a table a few mornings later, despite the limited catering facilities at Echo Base. "I hear she baked it on the manifold of her backhoe," said one crewbeing to another. Nobody could figure out where the icing came from, but that was the Master Chief for you. The Master Chief beamed from ear to ear over her mug of caf, surveying the happy commotion.

Cassian was a spy, after all. He knew Thursday was Sabacc Night on Echo Base. As soon as he saw her take her place at the table next to Vangos, he slipped away. Using his lucky set of lock splicers (the ones he'd had since he was seven), he quickly broke in and went straight for the wastebasket. Tossing crumpled balls of paper over his shoulder, it was midway down before he found the one he wanted. Smoothing it out, he read it: "Louise Tolek Caf Plantation, Garqi." He quickly committed the comm coordinates to memory. The balls of paper were replaced in the wastebasket, along with the used tissues. (He shuddered at those, gingerly holding them between two fingers.)

Biggs was willing to stop at Garqi on his way back from a mission in the Outer Rim. It cost Cassian a month of bantha custard pie portions. Cassian placed the pound of beans next to the Master Chief's caf dispenser, and stood back with his arms crossed, silently waiting. He cocked one eyebrow at her, questioning.

"Dude. Not happening," Chief chided. "It is awfully sweet of you to think of me though," she reaffirmed, sweeping up the vacuum pack in one powerful arm as her boots clunked through the workshop door. She paused and looked back over her shoulder. "Tell you what- I'll share it with you, since you went to all that trouble. It's kriffing good coffee."

Cassian had been in the deception business since he was a kid, after all. As a young apprentice spy, Cassian had been forced to commit the _Mandalorian Art of War_ to memory. "All warfare is based on deception," wrote the Mandalorian clan leader of the Old Republic whose name was forgotten to time, "avail yourself also of any helpful circumstances over and beyond the ordinary rules."

"I am not going to cheat for you at sabacc," Winter scolded, after he sought out his colleague.

He made puppy eyes at her.

She glared at him.

"But you have perfect memory!" he countered.

She sighed. "I _will_ teach _you_ to count cards, though. It's a life skill. Might come in handy someday."

On the following Thursday, Cassian coolly sauntered into the mess hall. Chief was there at her usual table, leaning back into the corner, Shento cigar clamped between her teeth.

"Deal me in," he requested, pulling up a chair from a nearby table. Wedge and Jaldine's heads bounced up from their cards. They gave each other a look of confusion and surprise.

The Master Chief slapped her leg and the front legs of her chair thunked back to the ground. "Sure thing," she laughed.

"Nice of you to join us," Jaldine commented, rearranging the cards in her hand. "Thought sabacc wasn't your thing?"

"Does a guy need a reason to hang out with his friends?" he shrugged.

The hands flew by. Cassian began to amass a small fortune in loot, buoyed up by his lessons with Winter. The stakes were getting higher and higher. There were Imperial credits in the kitty, some wupiupi, and he thought he even saw a druggat, too. He glanced around the table, studying his comrades. The advantage of being a spy was that Cassian could quickly deduce everyone's tells. For example, Ten Numb rubbed his ear when he had a bad hand.

"I'm out," Ten Numb announced, and tossed his cards down. Cassian studied his opponent across the table. Chief was harder to read. After a long day, her impeccably regulation salt-and-pepper bun was coming undone, and one escaping tendril draped over the side of her stony face as she met his stare.

He carefully considered his cards, and the probabilities on the table. "I'll raise you two wupiupi," he announced.

Chief cocked her head, appraisingly. She peeked under the corner of her cards. "I'm afraid I don't have two wupiupi," she replied. "Hmm…"

"You know, I think I could think up a great collateral," Cassian suggested.

Wedge rolled his eyes. "You two and that darn coat," he complained. (He had already gone out in the last deal.)

Chief turned her cool brown eyes on Wedge. "It only has a _million_ pockets," she snapped. "They don't make them like that anymore."

Ten Numb squeaked in a manner that could almost be considered saucy.

"Fine," she griped. "The coat goes in the kitty."

Ten Numb and Jaldine glanced at the two combatants, then sideways at each other, and both folded.

Cassian triumphantly turned over his cards. "Pure Sabacc, 23!"

Everyone's eyes got as big as saucers, even the Chief. A hush blanketed the room like a sheet of snow sliding off the comm shack roof. The day after, Jaldine swore to anyone who would listen that she even heard the proverbial record scratch as the jerry-rigged jukebox in the corner playing "Dune Sea Special" chose that moment to come to a halt.

The Master Chief brushed the loose lock of hair back over her ear. She looked at Cassian, and flipped her cards over.

"Idiot's Array," she shrugged.

Two weeks later, Wedge Antilles was sent to deliver a message to a cell on Kintan in the Outer Rim. It was little-known that one of the Alliance's greatest pilots hid a secret weakness for general stores, since they reminded him of his grandfather. Wedge's grandfather loved carpentry, and he had many happy memories of going to the local hardware store together to pick up project supplies. When Wedge saw the sign just outside the central marketplace, he knew he had to go into the general store, for old time's sake.

"Welcome, welcome, sir!" exclaimed the proprietor in Huttese. Wedge assumed he was a young Hutt just starting out in the family business, based on his uncharacteristic friendliness and small proportions. General stores were the same anywhere across the galaxy- wooden floors that creaked, the glass display cases with elaborate knives with detailed handles.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" the Hutt asked.

"Oh no, I'm just looking," Wedge replied, taking a peach soda out of the cooler. He laid a coin on the counter.

"We have Galactic Republic military surplus in the back, too, in case you're interested," pressed the Hutt. "Do you need a pair of boots or overalls?"

"Eh, I might need some boots," Wedge murmured. He made his way to the back of the store. Motes of sawdust glinted in the sunbeams coming through the window. The clothes had a slight film of dust- he wondered if they had been there since Geonosis or longer. He walked down the aisle, fingers dragging along ammo boxes and belts, and then there they were. Stacks and stacks of blue fur lined winter-issue coats in every size, with their Republic insignia there on the shoulder. He picked one up and shook it out; it seemed good enough. He checked the seams like his grandmother had taught him- you never knew if they were seconds. They all seemed to have an odd musty, slightly reptilian, smell. He hoped it would come out with a good airing. He peered around the divider, and saw that the owner was tallying numbers on an abacus. He quickly commed the General, and got an affirmative response.

After some serious negotiations, involving Wedge swearing he saw a moth fly out of the jackets, and the Hutt professing he couldn't possibly part with them at such a dear price because he had to support his eight little brothers and sisters back home, Wedge prevailed, with some of the Alliance line of credit still to spare. He walked out with as many coats as he could stuff into his nondescript perfectly-unobtrusive generic landing craft designed to call as little attention to him as possible. He did get some stares from the local Nikto as he walked by. It wasn't every day that they saw an off-worlder dragging a hover-pallet of coats behind him, especially on a warm day like this.

When he got back to Echo Base, Wedge had trouble even leaving his shuttle before the crowd surged forward. Everyone was tired of being eternally cold, it seemed. The General whistled and stood on a box. The mob grew quiet.

"Form a single file line, and coats will be issued in turn," commanded the General. The Rebel fighters shuffled into a semblance of a line. Initial excitement soon turned to murmuring when people noticed the … odd… smell … the coats had. Some made faces, or decided to air them outside in the stiff wind for a while to get the Hutt smell out.

The only exception was Cassian, who already had his coat zipped up and his face buried in the fur ruff. People rolled their eyes and shook their heads, because they all knew Cassian's obsession with the Hutts, second only to his determination to warm up.

K2SO tapped Cassian on the shoulder. "I'd like to point out that there is a 38% probability that the coats…"

"Don't," Cassian snapped.

Wedge saw the Master Chief sidle up to Cassian. She gave him a hearty friendly slap on the back. "Nice coat," she chuckled. " 'S it vintage? You know what they say about imitation and flattery!"

Author's Notes:

This plot bunny developed over the holidays, when I was binge-watching Star Wars: Clone Wars with my Dear Son. I noticed that Anakin's parka in Season 1, episode 15, looked an awful lot like Cassian's parka that he was wearing on Jedha, and the story wrote itself from there. When a subconscious Easter Egg slipped in, I knew this had to be a birthday present for Onlymton.

I am not taking a stand on whether Han's coat on Hoth was brown or blue, because I fail miserably at the whole white-gold vs blue-black dress thing. Please don't flame me! Thanks to my beta, D., for her suggestions. Any remaining mistakes are mine. The quotes are from Sun Tzu's _Art of War._


End file.
